Of Faith Long Lost
by starry19
Summary: 2x10 Tag. "There should have been something monumental to mark this occasion. Some romance or declarations of affection. Instead, the moment was denoted by bruises and blood and the smell of hot metal. And Lucy." Garcy


AN: Sorry, I know I usually have stuff posted the day after, but I'm too busy obsessively checking for renewal news. This isn't terribly long, but it was post it now or never, and I chose now. Let me know what you think!

 **Of Faith Long Lost**

He had not held a woman he loved since he'd gotten in bed with his wife, that last night. Lorena had curled into him, like she always did, and he'd rested a hand on her hip. No reason to think that it would be the last time he would ever do such a thing.

And then he had gone the next three years being hardly touched at all, hardly _touching_ at all, and never by anyone he gave more than a faint, passing damn about.

There should have been something monumental to mark this occasion. Some romance or declarations of affection.

Instead, the moment was denoted by bruises and blood and the smell of hot metal.

And Lucy.

Her pale skin was mottled with angry red splotches that would be an explosion of blues and purples in the next day, a small line of blood seeping from one of her eyebrows. God, her lovely face.

He knelt next to her striped skirts, the second time that day that he had found himself on his knees before her. His arm viscerally reminded him that he was shot, but it could go straight to hell. He scooped Lucy up, her petite body just dead weight. She didn't have anything left.

He understood. He knew too well the sort of empty exhaustion that rage and grief could cause, had caused in him.

At the last moment, one of her hands grabbed the back of his coat, and then there he was. Holding the woman he loved. Her head cradled in his good hand, her fingers wrapped around his wrist.

She said his name, and for a moment, he swore his heart stopped. He looked down at her, almost pleading. Whatever she wanted, he would do. Anything to take her pain away.

"I can't," she breathed, voice cracking. "I can't."

 _You don't have to_ , he wanted to tell her, regardless of what it was she didn't think she could do. Function? Sit up? Breathe?

Her hand fell away. Another choking sob ripped its way out of her throat and she leaned forward, towards him.

He did the only thing he could think of. Bowed his forehead down, pulled her closer. Tried to cover her, shelter her with his body, to tell her without words that he had her, and he would _make_ everything alright.

Even in the moment, he was willing to admit to himself that _that_ may have been impossible.

He would have still tried.

Under his hands, she was trembling with tears and shock and horrified reaction. She had deliberately set out to kill someone, and it would take some time before she would be able to reconcile with that.

Yes, Emma would have certainly deserved killing, and in fact, he meant to take the problem away from Lucy himself the next time he had a chance.

It did not make deliberate death easier. Nor should it have.

Especially for Lucy.

He closed his eyes.

 _Please._

Was he praying? Yes, he supposed he was. His head was bowed, after all. But for what?

 _Please_.

The word came to his mind again, unbidden.

 _Please let me keep her safe. Take her pain away. Be strong enough to hold her together._

Was that a worthy prayer? He wasn't asking for anything for himself, not really. For strength, so that he could be strong for her. He didn't think it was terribly selfish, but he had lost most of his faith in God a long time ago, so what did he know?

His faith in Lucy was a different story entirely.

She shivered. He hoped she wasn't going into shock properly. They did not precisely have the luxury of having her lie down with her feet up just now.

But then she shifted, sliding off his lap, and while he wanted her back, he was glad she was finding the determination to bear her own weight. He had seen the opposite many times in war. A line is crossed from which there was no going back, and the mind simply cannot cope.

Not Lucy.

She let go of him, wiping ferociously at her tears, then wincing as she forgot about her cheek.

Emma was going to beat her to death, had intended to do just that. The idea flitted through his mind and took hold, and he felt darkness snake through his veins like ice.

Emma's time on earth was going to be abruptly shortened.

He went to stand, forgetting about his arm in the throes of sudden rage, but then hissed as he tried to push off on it. He offered Lucy his good hand, and together they pulled her to her feet.

She was shaky, and it was a full minute before he let her stand by herself.

When he was at least mostly convinced that she wasn't going to keel over, he tried to covertly check the wound on his arm. Still bleeding. Still painful. Still reminding him that he had just spent ten minutes supporting 120 pounds when his body had quite clearly told him not to do so. It didn't matter. He would have held her like that all night.

"Oh my God," Lucy suddenly whispered, watching him. "You're hurt."

He shook his head. "It's fine. I've had worse."

Despite both of these things being true, she gently took his arm, probing at the bloody mess with unsteady hands.

He caught her fingers with his good hand. "Lucy," he said softly. "I'm fine."

She looked up at him, dark eyes lost and afraid and so heartbroken, and he released her. Maybe letting her fuss over him would take her mind off of some things, however briefly.

And he had to admit it at least felt a little nice.

When he was patched up to her satisfaction, this consisting of his tie being knotted around his bicep, he finally managed to coax her out of the building.

As they approached the bar where they had left the others, he placed at hand at her waist. Unspoken as it was, the message was still clear - _I'm right here with you if you need me_.

The next hour was horrible and heartbreaking.

He knew that both he and Wyatt had fallen into what was a necessary stand-by in these situations - _do your duty_. That was how soldiers managed to function in situations that no person should be asked to bear.

No one spoke much.

Wyatt led the way back to the Lifeboat, one of his hands wrapped around Jiya's arm. He wasn't sure if the other man was comforting himself, or Jiya, or simply making sure that she was going to get in this damn hunk of metal.

Possibly all of the above.

He handed Lucy up to Wyatt, who buckled her in without comment, his eyes lingering on the pound of mince that used to be one side of her face.

The door closed behind them, blocking out the hellish skyline of the place that had taken Rufus from them.

And that was the problem with caring, he reminded himself. It opened you up to the possibility of loss.

It hurt.

Even when he had long thought he was beyond any sort of pain.

He had lost a friend today.

He glanced at Lucy, the jewel toned lights of the Lifeboat spinning patterns on her skin, her dress. She had her eyes closed and looked as though she didn't care if she ever moved again.

He shut his own eyes as the Lifeboat began to rattle.

Took one more opportunity to beg God.

 _Please. Let me be enough._


End file.
